


would it be so bad if I stayed?

by rahmiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loneliness, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 17:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22452961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahmiel/pseuds/rahmiel
Summary: With both Harry and Hermione at the Ministry, Ron takes up a groundskeeping job at Hogwarts. The pay is alright, and he'd never have guessed he'd be so good at building charms -- but he soon finds that he's very ill-equipped to deal with the sudden onset of loneliness he feels. Desperate for any kind of interaction and alone in the castle with only his former Professors to talk to, Ron decides to make friends with his new roommate, the only peer that can be found in the vicinity... Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 25
Kudos: 87





	1. August

Ron levitates the crate full of still-unearthed baby mandrakes, taking great care in enunciating the incantation so as not to cause any shrieking incidents. The greenery hanging heavy around him is completely still, no breeze providing respite from the sweltering heat. Today, he’s been tasked with arranging the plants needed for the first years’ Herbology class so that they’re easily accessible in the greenhouse closest to Hogwarts. The new students are due to arrive in a month’s time, and Ron knows the upcoming year will be a tough one for the professors, considering they’ll have two years’ worth of eleven year olds to take care of. 

Many of the families that were aware of the war’s progression had opted out of sending their children to Hogwarts for their first year—not while conflict had been simmering, just under the surface, and ready to boil over at any moment. Ron can’t say he blames them. If it’d been up to him, he’d never have gone on a wild goose chase to destroy elusive parts of a maniacal wizard’s soul, either. Or maybe that's just immaculate hindsight. 

It had only been the natural progression of things, after the war had ended on that terrible day, for Harry to join the Aurors.  _ It’s probably the only thing I’m actually good for, _ Harry had said to Ron as he’d been packing his trunk, and Ron had been so tired of everything he couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. He’d watched as Harry’s face fell and his short form slunked through the shadows in Ron’s room at the Burrow before pausing at the door frame and looking back at Ron.  _ I wish you’d come with me,  _ Harry had said, and Ron had turned his back to his best friend to hide the tears that had welled in his eyes. Still, through a hiccup, Ron had managed to say,  _ write to me, will you? _ And Harry’s answering hum before the door clicked softly shut had been deafening in the silence.

Ron shakes his head, trying to ground himself back in reality. Those dark, stuffy days at the Burrow back in May, when the loss of Fred had still been so fresh that Mum burst into tears every fifteen minutes, have a way of worming themselves into Ron’s thoughts whenever he thinks of… anything related to the war, really. 

Not that he’s made forgetting the war very easy for himself, considering Ron’s gone  _ against  _ the natural progression of things and—well, instead of joining the Aurors, after he’d left the Burrow, he’s been tending to the Hogwarts grounds ever since.

He takes the last crate of the mandrakes and lugs it with his hands instead of magic. It helps to focus him on the here and now, on the gentle humming coming from the back of the greenhouse, where Professor Sprout is taking care of her plants, on the stale air and the wood digging into Ron’s palms. When he’s done, he shuffles towards Sprout and clears his throat.

“Oh, are you done, dear?” she says and pats his arm with a dirt-covered glove. Ron nods and smiles at the gesture. It reminds him of Mum. She probably hasn’t gardened in a while… He should buy her some new seeds, Ron thinks.

“It’s so great that you’re here, helping us,” Sprout continues, and Ron starts to shuffle a bit awkwardly. He’s not rude enough to up and leave, though, so he bears his former professor’s chatter. “Everyone repairing Hogwarts was a great help, sure, but they all left after the most obvious things were fixed. These little things, though, like the weakened wards in the Slytherin dungeons—well, these things pile up. Minerva, Flitwick, Hagrid and I, we’re all trying our best, but it gets a little much sometimes. You taking care of Fang and doing these odd jobs is a blessing, Mr. Weasley!” she exclaims, then turns back to trimming the leaves of her plant. Ron takes that as his cue to leave, after he gathers his things and shoots her a scattered  _ "Goodbye, Professor!".  _

He treks towards Hagrid’s hut, noting the lack of smoke coming from the chimney. Hagrid must be in the Forbidden Forest around this time, and Ron’s glad for that. He doesn’t know if he can stand Hagrid’s chatter, too, not in the state of mind he’s in right now. 

Despite it not being the  _ natural  _ progression of things, it had been a progression nonetheless when Ron had found himself staying around after the major reconstruction of the walls had been finished. 

Harry had gone to the Ministry, and so had Hermione—opting to take an internship at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She'd seemed very excited at first, but judging by the letters Ron's been receiving on a weekly basis, she's steadily getting disillusioned that she'll be able to enact any meaningful change with a post in that particular department. Ron wagers Hermione will take a job at Law Enforcement instead. 

Both of his friends had found paths for themselves, and Ron never thought for a second to stand in the way of that, despite the soul-crushing loneliness he still feels. So it  _ had _ been a progression of sorts when Ron saw everyone leave Hogwarts that summer and thought,  _ would it be so bad if I stayed? _

It wasn't _ —isn't,  _ if the way his mind doesn't linger as much on the empty hole inside of him is indicative of anything. The work he does, though mostly menial, is meaningful. Through all his years at Hogwarts, Ron had never actually seen the castle itself. He'd  _ looked _ at it plenty, sure, but never consciously noticed the intricate webbing of magic woven into every nook of the school grounds. Now that he's directly tasked with many aspects of its upkeep, Ron finds that it's much more beautiful than he'd ever realised. 

He pets Fang when he gets near enough, and the huge dog stretches and then rolls over. Ron smiles a little at that and kneels down so he can give Fang a big hug, which turns out to be a mistake, because he surfaces all slobbery and wet with dog drool. Fang likes kissing. Ron likes being kissed too… just not by Fang. Still, it makes him feel better, and he goes inside with less weight on his chest than just moments before.

Hagrid’s hut is homey as always but lately, Ron has also managed to make it as pristine as a House Elf on a rampage would. He finally understands what Mum means when she says sometimes cleaning is the only way to stop thinking about your problems. 

Hagrid keeps moving the kettle around so Ron knows that the half-giant has been there recently, and Ron sort of itches with the need to put it back in its place. Although his room may be a mess, he feels oddly unmotivated to clean  _ it, _ and eager to clean everywhere else. He opts not to go on a cleaning spree today, though, as his work in the greenhouses absolutely exhausted him. 

The air inside is cool from the surrounding stone, and Ron slumps on Hagrid’s big chair. Swallowed by the enormous cushions, he’s about to drift off into hopefully dreamless slumber, when a patronus Ron has had the dubious pleasure of getting closely acquainted with waltzes inside. 

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall’s voice resonates, the patronus cat swishing its tail to and fro. “Would you be so kind to join me in the Headmaster’s office?” she says, and then the patronus promptly dissolves. Ron knows it’s an order. It doesn’t stop him from debating whether or not to follow it, but in the end, he gets up despite the protesting of his tired muscles. On his way out, Ron takes some of the dog food Hagrid keeps in a chest next to the door and fills Fang’s bowl with a  _ lot  _ of it. Fang is not a Crup, but his size warrants special treatment.

When he arrives in front of the castle, McGonagall is waiting for him at the steps just outside the main entrance.

“Ah, there you are, Ronald,” she says, and it’s still weird when she calls Ron by his first name. That’s another thing that’s changed after the war. “Please, do me a favor and step past the threshold.”

Over the past two months, Ron has learned not to question his Professor’s commands too much, odd as they may seem, because they always have some underlying purpose. McGonagall had taken up toying and tinkering with the castle’s magic while repairing it, and she’s still going at it even as August has rolled around and preparations for the new school year have begun. She looks at Ron patiently with that unreadable expression of hers and he nods before stepping inside.

Immediately, a voice rings out from… the castle itself, Ron supposes.  _ Ronald Weasley, visiting on behalf of Minerva McGonagall,  _ it bellows, and McGonagall looks positively delighted. 

“Can everyone hear that?” Ron asks, looking up at the statues on the wall high above him.

McGonagall hums in what Ron thinks is displeasure. “Yes. I haven’t gotten around to fixing that yet, but I presume soon enough, I will be able to silence the spoken announcement for everyone but me.”

“If I may ask, what’s the point of this, Professor?”

“No one can come in uninvited, even if they somehow manage to get past the wards,” she says.

“Isn’t that a little extreme,” Ron says, and then shuts up. No precaution is extreme enough after the war. He knows this. 

“Yes,” McGonagall says simply. “But I am not letting another attack on Hogwarts happen on my watch. You forget, Ronald, that I am a Gryffindor as well,” she says with a curious glint in her eyes. “Now come. I did summon you for an actual reason.”

They walk through the castle and up the spiral staircase to the Headmaster’s office, where five minutes later Ron is sat with a cup of sweetened tea and a Professor that stares at him like she knows he’s about to protest whatever in Merlin’s name she says next.

He  _ does.  _

“You want me to—you want me to share my room with Malfoy?” Ron squawks, tea forgotten.

“Where else do you propose he sleeps?”

“Can’t he just, I don’t know, go back to his Manor?” His face twists thinking of that dark, wretched place, and he shudders. 

McGonagall sighs. “The Manor’s assets have been seized following the arrest of Lucius Malfoy and the expatriation of Narcissa Malfoy, and the process of removal and storage of all cursed objects currently on the estate has begun. Mr. Malfoy has nowhere to stay, considering he has opted to redo his seventh year here, at Hogwarts. I am simply giving him access to his dormitory a month early.”

Ron chugs some of the tea from his cup, if only not to snap at his Headmistress. 

“Why my room, then? You’re making it sound as if there’s no other room in this whole blo—this whole place somehow.”

“Ronald… I think it’s about time we leave the past behind us. Whatever petty rivalry you boys had, that was years ago. Mr. Malfoy’s actions in the war were desperate measures taken to protect his own family. He will not be judged at Hogwarts, and  _ you, _ as the newest member of our staff—no matter how small your role may be—must treat him with respect.” Ron gulps, eyes wide. He hadn’t expected her to turn that card on him. He  _ is  _ getting paid, though; she’s right. He's a member of the Hogwarts staff. “As for the room itself, you may have learned that the Slytherin dormitories are unfit for residence at the moment.”

Ron nods, remembering what Sprout had said. “Something about the wards, Professor?”

For a moment, McGonagall looks weary. She must be tired, Ron thinks. It softens him up a little; he's that much closer to agreeing to her ludicrous idea that him and Malfoy will somehow be able to share a room without killing each other. 

“Indeed. During the invasion of Hogwarts, and the subsequent battle, the inhabitants of the Great Lake—the Giant Squid and the merpeople, most predominantly—sensed the copious amounts of dark magic radiating on these premises. Their reaction was intended to preserve and protect the lake, and their magic acted on its own accord. You may know how the magic of distressed beings affects its surroundings in the long term; their protection wore down on the layer of wards that separates the lake from the dungeons. Most curious of a situation,” McGonagall explains, looking away in a thoughtful manner. She blinks and looks back at Ron, shaking herself out of it. The action reminds him of Hermione, in an odd way. “Before you ask why not send him to another dormitory instead, I suggest you look at your schedule for the upcoming week.” 

Ron opens his mouth and closes it, gaping like a fish out of water. His schedule? He has to repair the Gryffindor’s girls dormitory and arrange the brooms on Tuesday, fix the pipes in the lavatory in Hufflepuff’s dormitories on Wednesday, and… “All the dormitories are out of commission,” he says.

McGonagall smiles wryly. “You see, now, why he has to stay with you in the Staff wing.”

Ron nods, placated. Well, if it is so, he’ll just have to grin and bear it. It can’t be worse than living with Fred… Ron’s face twists in a grimace, and he drinks more sweet tea in hopes of gulping down the tidal wave of sadness that threatens to rise from the depths of his chest. McGonagall seems to notice, though, ever observant. 

“Mr. Malfoy is set to arrive sometime later today, and you are free for the rest of the afternoon, Ronald. The weather is perfect for flying. You are aware you have full access to our Quidditch supplies, yes?” she says, gesturing for him to go. 

Smiling softly at her, Ron goes to leave. “Thank you, Professor,” he says by way of goodbye, and descends down the stairs. 

He looks at the first window he notices; the afternoon sun illuminates the corridor, rays breaking apart and shifting when they pass through stained glass. Outside, the Quidditch pitch is empty and shimmers in a yellow-green haze. Ron imagines being alone there: he can already feel the wind tousling his hair as he zooms through the air on his broom, no one around to hear his whoops and bellows as he practices tossing the Quaffle in the hoops.

Suddenly, flying doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, after all—even if it’s never the same when he flies alone. 

And no one’s there to fly with Ron, in an almost-empty castle full of shadows that remind him of the life he once lived. 

***

Malfoy has settled surprisingly well in Ron’s room after two weeks. 

Ron watches as the blond puffs up his pillow before plonking back down on it. Malfoy seems to blend in with the sheets—pale hair and skin and white pajamas illuminated by the morning sunlight, and Ron can sort of pretend he hasn’t been spending the last fortnight with the boy if he looks anywhere other than Malfoy’s bed. 

It wouldn’t be hard. They haven’t exchanged a single word in the time Malfoy’s been there, and Ron hasn’t felt any particular need to. He takes back the thoughts he had when McGonagall first suggested this—he’d thought Malfoy would be like a rabid dog, trying to taunt and provoke Ron, but there’d been none of that. Instead, they’d simply fallen into a routine based on an unspoken agreement, one that said any interaction between them would be obsolete. After all, there had never been any warmth between them in the first place, so why should they work for it now?

The room’s remained largely unchanged since Malfoy’s arrival, the only real difference being that the half-empty space Ron had been using as storage for his trunk has been replaced with what’s now Malfoy’s bed. There’s only one desk, but it’s not like Ron will need to use it often. As some part of Ron subconsciously expected, Malfoy doesn’t take up any space except for what he takes up with his ego… but that’s been missing as well, lately. He barely sees the other boy, barely even knows he’s there, their ecological niches discordant in all ways except one.

When he goes to bed, Ron hears Malfoy’s gentle breathing before he falls asleep. And when he wakes, he sometimes finds Malfoy staring at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face. 

Ron really doesn’t know what to make of it. That’s why he’s decided not to make anything of it at all, and continue with his duties the same as before. He knows McGonagall is pleased by the small smiles and nods she sends his way when they pass each other; she’d expected the worst, too. It’s still bloody weird, though. 

This morning, the idyllic scenery of Ron’s—and Malfoy’s—room is the same, but for one thing: there is a pile of books stacked on the desk, a letter laying on top of it. Ron waits for Malfoy to notice, watching his pointy profile as the blond stares up at the ceiling. 

When Malfoy moves, Ron can't tell how many minutes have passed, but he's positive Malfoy didn't even glance in Ron's direction. Malfoy simply gets up, his legs swinging to the side of the bed, head turning slowly towards the desk. His expression, previously blank and uncaring, twists into something akin to displeasure; Malfoy's features arrange themselves into a scowl as he gets up and looms above the desk, picking up the letter with his slender fingers and cracking the wax seal. 

That's when he turns to look at Ron. 

They stare at each other for a moment, saying nothing, maintaining the status quo. Then Ron decides to speak, surprising himself. 

"So, uh… You feelin' alright there, Malfoy?" he asks, voice croaky with sleep. 

For a slow moment, Malfoy does nothing, just blinks once then stares, and Ron realises how different this Malfoy in the here and now is, compared to the one living in Ron's memories. He seems sluggish, slow in a way that Ron's never seen from a Malfoy before—they've always been haughty, poised and graceful, and never dallying. But the war changed everyone, for better or worse. It's changed Malfoy, too. 

"What do you want, Weasel?" Malfoy asks, and it sounds oddly dry without the glazing of venom it's usually coated with. 

Ron props himself up on his elbows to look at the books' spines better, but he still can't make out anything. "Just asking if you're okay. You look a little pissed."

"None of your business." 

"But Gryffindors stick their noses into everything, right? You've said that many times. So, are those your school books?" 

"I wouldn't  _ know,  _ Weasel, would I, since  _ someone  _ has been chatting me up out of the blue not letting me get to it!" Malfoy spits, for a moment embodying what Ron used to know him as. It's over in an instant, though, and Malfoy turns his back to Ron and starts ripping the envelope open. 

Ron gets up, raising his hands in mock defense, and sighs. "Wouldn't exactly call that  _ chatting up,  _ I think."

Malfoy scoffs, and Ron busies himself with unearthing his socks from the mess on his side on the room while Malfoy reads the letter. After some time passes—he's found two socks and they're mismatched but at least his feet are covered; that's what matters—he clears his throat and approaches the desk. 

"Oh, you won't leave it, will you? For Merlin's sake. Yes, they're my school books. Happy now?" Malfoy says once he notices Ron hovering behind, trying to look at the letter. Malfoy's gotten taller but Ron has as well, and they're almost the same height. It pleases him to know he's still got a couple of inches on the scrawny git, though.

"Yes, yes," Ron grins and stretches, taking the time to check out the books now that he's closer. He's seen most of them, knows Ginny just retrieved the same ones from the patchwork hand-me-down library in the Burrow, although if pressed he probably wouldn't be able to recall many details about their actual contents. What he needs for his job at Hogwarts he can always look up in one of the myriad of books available at the school, and that's completely fine by him. In fact, he needs to get one now, because the walls in Hufflepuff have been causing him  _ such _ grief, there must be at least one spell about mending stubborn stones… 

He doesn't notice that Malfoy's moved all of the books to his own side of the room until he clears his throat and points at the bathroom door behind Ron. 

"If you will? Some of us have things to do."

Ron chuckles, in an odd way pleased Malfoy is playing into this familiar role, even though he hasn't missed being put down constantly. He rolls his eyes and steps aside. "What is it that you do all day, anyway? Two weeks and I haven't seen you around the castle once, and since I'm actually working here, I walk around it plenty."

"I knew you were a bit daft, Weasley, but I didn't realise the extent. I even have to repeat myself now," Malfoy bites, sighing. "None of your business," he says as the bathroom door shuts behind him. It sounds oddly half-hearted, as if the whole exchange exhausted Malfoy.

Ron gnaws at his lip, staring off into space again while the muffled noises of the shower fill the silence. Some indescribable feeling fills him up, an odd mixture of indignation and curiosity. He wants to punch Malfoy—nothing new, but he also wants to talk to him _ —that's  _ something Ron hasn't experienced before. 

As he goes about his day, the feeling persists. 

He absentmindedly chews at the croissant the kitchen Elves have made specially for him, and he's so distracted—yet again, staring off into space, thinking, wondering—that the milk he's drinking spills from the sides of the cup down his face. 

He drops a Wingardium he's holding for Flitwick and almost crushes the man with a boulder. Flitwick is definitely not pleased. Ron's always had trouble with that damned spell.

Later, he even calls McGonagall by her surname, and not  _ Professor  _ as usual. She seems amused, which is somehow disconcerting. 

When evening arrives—he's sitting with Hagrid in the hut with a book about advanced building charms in hand, unable to focus—he's had enough of it. 

"What's gotten to ya', lad?" Hagrid chuckles, watching Ron pace in front of the unlit fireplace. 

Ron hesitates, knowing how this will sound, but says it anyway. "Malfoy."

Hagrid has the gall to laugh. "Malfoy, ya' say? How is it that you and Harry always have such a hard time with that one?" 

"Don't you remember what happened in third year?" Ron asks, now pushing the huge cups on Hagrid's table around, restless. "With Buckbeak?" 

"Eh," Hagrid smiles, leaning backwards into his armchair. "A childish matter—and children, that's what you all were, back then. Different people now," he nods, a solemn quality taking over his words. 

Ron runs his palm over his face, resigned. "I'm going to take a walk. Didya need anything else?" 

"No, no, all done for today. Go ahead," Hagrid says. "And don't forget to water the pumpkins tomorrow morning!" he bellows from inside when Ron's gone out. 

Ron starts walking in the direction of the lake, thoughts once again drifting towards Malfoy. He hasn't been thinking about the boy much the past two weeks, only observing the way Malfoy behaves. He didn't even have a reason to talk to Malfoy at all before today, when the books arrived. But thinking about it more deeply, he realises he's been unconsciously bothered by the difference in Malfoy's behavior after all. 

It's all small things; the way Malfoy sometimes sighs, Ron only noticing once silence takes over again. The way Malfoy often refuses to glance in Ron's direction—not just shy, but seemingly even afraid of something unnamed Ron can't quite put his finger on. His airiness, in many ways just like Luna's yet so much sharper and less well meaning. The way he stares, so often, at the blank ceiling, never saying anything. Ron's convinced they never would have spoken had he not taken the initiative. 

He's nearing the lake, now, and the sun is setting. It glints on the horizon, making the water sparkle. There's a warm breeze in the air which rustles the leaves around, and everything feels still save for that one point of motion. Ron looks back towards the castle, having completed a half-circle from Hagrid's hut to the lake, and it looks so vast and a bit broken and  _ empty. _

The feeling, which was a mess of confusion in his belly, now shapes itself, crystal clear and bringing with it the pain of realisation. Loneliness… and longing. 

Ron feels as empty as the castle, and maybe even as broken, too. 

He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so interested in Malfoy. Maybe it’s because the boy feels like an equal, and some part of Ron still desperately wants to cling to normalcy. He’s been feeling extremely out of place, a lone teenager in a castle full of dust. Malfoy is a teenager too, and maybe he feels the same way as Ron. It’s a stretch. It would be a first. 

Ron wants to know.

He goes to bed trying to come up with a reason to talk to Malfoy again. 

***

The next morning, Ron wakes after Malfoy, and the reason presents itself to him. He blinks the sleep away from his eyes only to be greeted by Malfoy's stare fixed on him. 

Ron doesn't know why, but something makes him repeat the question from the day before. "So… You feelin' alright now, Malfoy?" 

"Good morning to you too, then," Malfoy says after clearing his throat. 

"Decided to stare at me rather than the ceiling today?" Ron says, catching himself too late in the kneejerk reaction of egging Malfoy on. What a  _ great  _ start, Ron. Way to go. 

Thankfully, Malfoy doesn't bite. Instead, the answer comes out soft and maybe a little dejected, too. "I'm alright. You don't need to ask—I don't need saving anyway." 

Ron chuckles in a fit of self-deprecation. "I'm actually tired of saving people. That was always Harry and Hermione's job."

"I suppose you're right for once, Weasley. You've always been the least worthy of the Trio," Malfoy says and turns his gaze towards the ceiling. 

After a moment of pregnant silence, in which Ron is unsure whether this conversation has been a step forwards or backwards in their interaction, he stands up. "So I take it you're not feeling alright, then?" 

"Leave it, git," Malfoy says and burrows his head in the covers. He peeks out to look at Ron for a moment, gaze betraying annoyance. He mumbles, "can't say bloody  _ good morning _ without being questioned," and then disappears under them again. 

Ron's even more confused than he was the day before, but he decides to roll with it. 

***

That moment marks the start of their new routine.

It seems to have given Malfoy reason to greet Ron every morning and night. Pleased by this, Ron greets him too. On some days, he tries to  _ actually _ chat Malfoy up, to no avail. The blond is as elusive as ever. 

Though it bothers Ron, he hasn’t been paying much attention to it—he’s been really busy in the last week of August. The school and everyone in it needs Ron every five minutes or so; whether it’s the finishing touches in the dorms, Sprout in the greenhouses or McGonagall with her still-ongoing magic experiments, Ron feels like he’s busier than ever. 

And he  _ likes it. _

“And I  _ like _ it!” he says as much, Hermione’s head bobbing affirmatively in the fireplace in front of him. “Bloody hell, if you’d told me a couple years ago that I’d like working so much, I would’ve told you to go to the Janus Thickey ward to get checked out.” 

“If you like your work, it won’t feel like work at all,” she says, smiling at him with an air of angelic wisdom so distinctly Hermione that Ron can’t help but smile back. Her big hair can be likened to a halo floating behind her. “Besides, I should’ve noticed  _ ages  _ ago that you’d be really good at practical things! And not Harry's type of practical, either.” Harry's type of practical was offense and defense spells, yeah. 

_ “Should’ve?  _ It was up to me to discover that, ‘Mione. Besides, I wouldn’t have listened to you anyway, and you know it.”

Hermione grins at him, and then sighs. “You won’t believe how much work I have…” That explained why she hadn't sent him a letter in the past fortnight. 

Ron’s about to answer when Malfoy’s distinct drawl comes from the other side of the room. “Hermione Granger, complaining about her workload? Oh, the end of the world has truly come this time around…” 

Ron pulls back from the fire to glance at Malfoy, but he can’t see Malfoy’s face from the book the boy is hidden behind. Somehow, he knows the expression Malfoy wears bears no malice, so he ends up smirking instead. 

“What’s that, Ron? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I was just saying, you’re complaining about your workload? It must be the end of the world,” Ron says, his back towards Malfoy again, and he can’t see the way Malfoy reacts but he can hear a snort and the rustling of bedsheets.

“Harry said that, too, you know. I suppose that says something about the futility of my task…” Hermione says, sighing again. “I really have to go now. Do that work I just complained about. Truly, I hope you’re doing alright there at Hogwarts. It seems like you are, though. You’ll be even busier come next week… And so will I,” she rambles on.

“Alright, alright, Hermione. It was good to hear from you,” Ron grins. “Talk soon!” he says as the flames die down and her head disappears. He settles on his bed, sighing contentedly. It felt good to talk to his friend. He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to, what with both Harry and Hermione gone, as if it was some sort of irreversible change. But he’s pleased to find that there doesn’t seem to be a rift between them that can’t easily be bridged over some tea, biscuits and a good, long talk.

“So,” Malfoy’s voice breaks the ensuing silence, “it seems at least one of your friends hasn’t forgotten about your existence entirely.”

Ron feels a cross between offended and amused. If this were any other time, before the war, before Fred and Lupin and everyone else who gave their life for the future he was now living in—if this were any other time, Ron would have jumped at Malfoy’s throat kicking and screaming. As it is, the war did happen, and Ron really, truly wants to put it behind him. And that means not rising to Malfoy’s taunts, no matter how much he wants to; even if it’s only for the sake of doing something familiar. 

“Good thing, that,” he answers calmly, if with some effort. “If she’d forgotten, I would have reminded her anyway.”

Malfoy huffs and buries his nose back in the book in his hands;  _ Goshawk's Guide to Herbology,  _ by the looks of it. He seems as engrossed in it as Mum usually is in her romance novels. And when did  _ that  _ happen, by the way? As far as Ron can remember, Malfoy’s chosen interests laid in tormenting people and occasionally Potions—even that, he figures, may have been due to the nature of one late Slytherin Head of House.

Maybe Ron should empathise with losing your mentor, but he really can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for Snape. Still, he can empathise with losing  _ someone,  _ at least _ ;  _ that, in itself, makes him feel more inclined to work on the shaky relationship he currently has with his roommate.

_ Roommate…  _ he thinks.  _ I wonder how Harry and Hermione might react to me befriending  _ Malfoy.

He’s shaken out of his reverie by a sharp knock on the door, and both him and Malfoy turn their attention towards it. Ron decides to get up and open it, since Malfoy looks buried in his blankets and will probably fuss over having to fortify himself again later. Ron can’t bloody understand that—it’s August, and Malfoy sleeps and dresses like it’s rainy November at the very least.

When he opens the door he’s faced by McGonagall, looking as put-together as she always does. 

“Ah, Ronald. Good afternoon. I was wondering if Mr. Malfoy is… here…?” she says, trailing off, her gaze somewhere behind him. He hears Malfoy scramble to get up and change into something more suitable than his silk nightshirt—Merlin, he hadn’t even been wearing bottoms, Ron notices—and decides to be charitable to the poor fellow. After all, he’s been caught in his pants more times than he can count. He’s reasonably certain Malfoy doesn’t want to experience the horrid embarrassment of being seen by Professor McGonagall of all people, at that.

“We’ll be right with you, Professor,” he says, and when McGonagall nods he softly closes the door.

“Bloody—” Malfoy cuts off as he struggles with his trousers. 

“Use magic,” Ron helpfully cuts in.

Malfoy glares at him but then straightens up and does as much, his robes flying up and settling on his arms and shoulders and fitting him—well, quite nicely, actually. 

Ron sits on his bed, having backed away from the door. Malfoy seems to do some freshening spells, and then opens it. 

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Malfoy,” comes the curt greeting. “I apologize for bothering you this close to the start of the school year, but it appears the problem with the wards has still not been completely fixed.”

Ron thinks about which wards needed fixing, and finally realises where Malfoy has been disappearing off to. He looks at his nails, pretending not to listen.

“...and it poses no inconvenience, Professor,” Malfoy says.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Your expertise is appreciated,” McGonagall says. “If you would be so kind to join me in the dungeons in half an hour?”

“Of course,” Malfoy says and shuts the door after McGonagall leaves. 

Ron turns to look at him. “Expertise?”

“Is it that hard to believe, Weasley?” Malfoy scoffs. “The Manor has complicated wards. Father taught me in extensive detail about them. I am the heir, after all.” A pause.  _ “Was.” _

“Still, how much can you know? It’s McGonagall we’re talking about, and she asked for your help.”

“You never shut up, do you?”

“I shut up when I sleep.”

“No, you snore. So actually, you never do.”

“I snore?” Ron asks, incredulous. No one had told him. “Are you having me on?”

Malfoy snorts and starts making his bed, fluffing the pillows—all five of them—one by one. “You are easy to fool, Weasley. No wonder you can’t get on with Slytherins.”

“Would you stop avoiding my questions?”

“No,” Malfoy says, then turns around. “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

Ron thinks for a moment, looking at Malfoy. “I’ll, uh… leave you alone sooner?”

"You should be aware you are  _ dismal _ at negotiation," Malfoy sighs. "No hope for Gryffindors. Oh well," he finishes making his bed with a twist of his wand. "There's no harm in telling you. You won’t be able to use it against me with that appalling lack of wit anyhow."

Ron, for what it's worth, tries to be patient. After a beat, the other boy is facing him, sitting on his crisply made bed. 

"Remember how…” Malfoy starts and winces. “Remember how the Dark Lord was at the Manor?”

“Of course I bloody remember that,” Ron says, though not unkindly.

At Ron’s words, there’s a switch in Malfoy’s expression. Emotion seems to drain slowly away from his face, until all that’s left is an eerie blankness; just the same as he is in the mornings. “I needed to hide. As to why I felt the need to do that, the answer should be fairly obvious. I needed to get creative with it, too—considering I had a very powerful dark wizard in my own house, in addition to all of his crazy followers.”

Ron gulps, the nonchalant way Malfoy’s describing everything making the air seem thick and heavy, although Malfoy’s probably aiming for the opposite. Ron had wanted Malfoy to talk to him, yeah. Starting off with the heaviest stuff first probably hadn’t been such a good idea, though. He doesn’t know why Malfoy’s even telling him this, but the way Malfoy speaks is so detached. Devoid of any emotion. As if Malfoy had previously been forced to rehash all of these details, again and again, until the wound became so raw and painful that it went numb instead.

And Ron knows that Malfoy had had to do that. Harry had been at the trial, and had told Ron a bit about it.

“So…” Ron says, trying to fill the awkward pause.

“So,” Malfoy turns his head to look through the window above the desk, “I got good at modifying the wards. I had access, and Father  _ did  _ teach me a lot about them. I made it so that Voldy and my deranged aunt, chiefly, would not be alerted to my changing whereabouts inside the Manor itself.”

“Is that how you went to see Luna?”

Malfoy turns back to look at Ron, and Ron can finally see some semblance of personality return to that empty gaze. “Yes. Otherwise, I would’ve been caught. And my parents and I would likely be dead.”

“It makes sense,” Ron says, and feels very,  _ very  _ dumb. “I’m… bad at talking about the war,” he confesses, instead of comforting Malfoy—he won’t even try to tread that ground.

Malfoy seems satisfied with that answer, though, because he nods and stands up, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders. “Nice chat, Weasley. We won’t ever speak of it again, rest assured. Now, off I go,” he says, and disappears through the door in a flourish of robes. 

Ron’s left sitting there on his bed, staring at the discarded Herbology book on Malfoy’s side of the room. He feels like Malfoy opened a door to his inner world for Ron to peer inside, only to slam it back in Ron’s face a moment later.

Feelings have always been bloody difficult. He’d better get back to work.


	2. September

The evening is dark and overcast, reminding Ron of one just like this, eight years ago. He stands on the edge of the Great Lake, watching as innumerable boats lit by lanterns carry excited eleven year olds to the foot of the castle. There’s so many of the little buggers arriving that Ron can’t keep track of how many saw him, standing there, and waved excitedly at him with their little hands and open faces, untainted by war. He’s torn between feeling sad and feeling hopeful; he decides on the latter.

When the last of the boats reach the shore and the newcomers are safely driven away in the magical carriages—they don’t look so magical when you can see the Thestrals, really—Ron retreats to the hut to feed Fang and wait for Hagrid. 

“There’s many of ‘em this year,” Hagrid says, voicing Ron’s thoughts as they leave the hut a while later. Ron humms in agreement.

They’re going back towards the castle, to the Great Hall. Ron will sit at the Staff table for the Welcoming Feast, and with each step, he feels the trepidation within him skyrocketing.

It will surely be weird, seeing the Hall from that vantage point. Ron still can’t believe he has a seat at the table. All his years at Hogwarts, and he never once thought he’d be  _ there _ , side by side with his  _ Professors;  _ at heart, he’s still their student, and feels like it's no place for him. But McGonagall insisted on it, and that had, predictably, been a losing battle from the very start.

So that’s where Ron is headed towards right now. They're weaving through some side corridor Ron’s never seen before, at which end is a relatively small hole Hagrid somehow ends up squeezing through. It leads to a door hidden just behind a great, dusty drapery flanking the Staff table. 

As he walks towards his seat, Ron lets his eyes wander across the Hall filled with students, their chatter filling the air. It's like music to Ron's ears—Hogwarts, finally back in its element. When he sits down, some returning students catch his gaze and grin, which he returns wholeheartedly. Others pay no attention to him at all. Unable to see an  _ almost _ familiar head of white-blond hair, Ron finds himself wondering whether Malfoy will soon find a seat at the Slytherin table, and whether anyone has returned to keep him company on it at all.

The clinking of metal on glass snaps him out of his reverie, McGonagall finally beginning the Sorting Ceremony. The faces of the new students are alight with apprehension and barely concealed joy as they trot up to the chair one by one to get their Houses assigned. 

As the sorting progresses, Ron overhears Slughorn whispering to the Ancient Runes professor—Ron doesn’t know her name, but maybe he should, considering she’s his coworker now; not knowing it is something Hermione might chide him for—he hears him saying that there aren’t many Slytherins this year. He hears the words  _ unfortunate  _ and  _ expected,  _ and knows, with dawning realisation, exactly what they’re talking about.

That draws his attention back to the Slytherin table, which, patchy as it is, looks like a cat that accidentally got caught in one of the Wheezes’ various mayhemic contraptions. There’s scattered groups of students on it, sitting close by and huddled together, with big gaps between the groups themselves. Some of the students even look afraid. 

There’s no outright displays of hatred towards them right now, as far as Ron can see, but he knows deep down what kind of covert discrimination these poor kids will be facing for the next  _ year _ at the very least. Knows, even deeper down, what  _ he  _ would have done had this happened three, four years ago—the preexisting rift between Gryffindor and Slytherin fueling the righteous indignation of knowing that you were  _ on the right side.  _ That you  _ won.  _ It would have made him a right git, even more so than he used to be. 

And then Ron notices him—as close as one can get to the head of the table, with a pinched look on his face and back as straight as a rod, sits Malfoy. He’s on the side closest to the Staff table, and Ron can get a good look at him from where he’s sitting. When did he even get there?

No one’s sat next to Malfoy. The closest one is a first year who sits eleven seats away. 

Ron squints, trying to figure out exactly what that expression is trying to convey. Haughtiness? Discomfort? The latter sounds more like the Malfoy Ron has been witnessing the past month. He stares at the angular features, the scowl on Malfoy’s thin lips. In the candlelight, those same angular features look somewhat soft; somewhat scared. But it doesn’t look like terror—Ron knows terror, knows it intimately at that. It just looks as if… as if Malfoy doesn’t know what he’s actually scared of.

For the second time that evening, it’s McGonagall who shakes him out of his musings. Her bony hand rests on Ron’s upper back in a surprisingly mentor-like gesture. Ron turns his head to the side to look at her.

“Ronald, there is a list detailing your upcoming duties on your desk. None are urgent, but do make sure to complete them all on time.” She smiles from where she’s standing behind him, hand still on his back. “Chief among them is gathering the herbs Horace and Pomona have requested.”

“You mean like… I’ll have to go to the Forbidden Forest?” Ron gulps, thoughts of Malfoy completely forgotten, now that he has to face the prospect of reliving his Forest-related fears again.

She nods, still smiling gently. “Do not fret. The plants you need all grow on the very outskirts of the forest, and if you go during the day, I am certain you shall encounter no problems whatsoever. Safety measures and other instructions are all included in the list I have provided.”

Ron grimaces, knowing that he’ll have to do it despite loathing the idea itself. He has to remind himself that he  _ gets paid for this, this will go to the savings fund for the future, he  _ has  _ to do it. _

“Alright, Professor,” he tries to smile back.

“Enjoy the feast, Mr. Weasley.” She goes to sit in the middle of the table, nodding to the other Professors as she goes.

Ron looks down, finally noticing the scent of the steaming food laid out in front of him. While he’d been distracted staring at Malfoy, it’d apparently arrived on the tables. It somehow looks even better than what Ron remembers, and he digs in. There hadn’t been any group meals like this after the repairs ended in June, and he's bloody missed it. 

As he stuffs his face full with mashed potatoes, Ron shoots one last look at Malfoy. He catches the movement of Malfoy’s head as it turns to the side, and wonders what exactly Malfoy had been looking at just now.

***

What greets Ron when he gets back to his shared room with Malfoy, after spending some time in the corridors checking if everything’s alright, is said boy sitting on the chair in front of their desk with a parchment in hand. Ron supposes that’s the list McGonagall mentioned earlier, and after coming inside snatches it from Malfoy’s hand in a vaguely playful gesture. He doesn’t expect Malfoy to flinch backwards, and he doesn’t expect the stricken expression on Malfoy’s face, either.

“What’s wrong?” Ron stammers out, feeling out of place looming there above Malfoy with the parchment held awkwardly in his hand. 

Malfoy seems to gather himself and scowls. “What’s wrong is you appearing out of nowhere and ripping things out of my hands, scaring me  _ witless! _ Merlin,” he sighs heavily.

“Was it  _ that  _ scary?” Ron scoffs. “Used to do that all the time to Harry and Hermione.”

“I’m not some little Gryffindor friend of yours.”

“No, I suppose not,” Ron sighs too, moving to sit on his bed and leaving the parchment next to his pillow. Malfoy is glowering, but he still seems scared. “I know you’re not, but… can’t we at least try to be… I dunno, more civil?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I have been  _ perfectly  _ civil. Or do you think I should be kissing your feet or something of the sort?”

“Of course not!” Ron blusters. “But we could be, I suppose…  _ cordial.” _

“You suppose an awful lot of things. What makes you think I  _ want  _ to be cordial with you?”

“Alright, bloody hell, Malfoy. A bloke can’t try to make friends without you lashing out like some viper.”

Malfoy mouths  _ friends  _ and lays down on his bed. He stares at the ceiling as he speaks. “I cannot fathom why you’d even want to be… how did you put it,  _ cordial, _ with me. Surprised you even know that word,” he says, the ghost of a mocking smile on his face. 

Ron mirrors Malfoy, laying down and staring up. The ceiling somehow looks both in perfect condition and centuries old at the same time, beige colouring contrasting the dark one in the student dorms. Maybe that’s why Malfoy likes looking at it so much. 

“I don’t really know either," he responds, turning his head to look at Malfoy again. 

Malfoy props himself up on an elbow. “Why are you so annoying then?” he quips.

Before he can hold back, Ron snaps. It rises from within, the hurt and the loneliness and genuine longing to just  _ talk to someone.  _ "Because I'm bloody lonely!" 

At that, Malfoy blinks and stares in an owlish manner. Then he lays back down. “I  _ suppose _ I can understand that sentiment.”

“Can you, now?”

“Indeed."

“I saw you sitting alone at the Feast,” Ron says, prodding for information.

“I saw you sitting among the Professors, all high and mighty.”

“Was I? I thought you’d make a comment about how everyone had to look at me stuffing my face like an undignified prat or something.”

Malfoy actually chuckles at that. “Weasley, you  _ learn.” _

Ron huffs, secretly pleased with the direction their conversation is heading. “So… none of your former housemates have returned, then?”

“None,” Malfoy confirms. “Didn’t see you hanging around your sister and her cohort either, though.” 

“I never have. Harry, and occasionally Hermione, did. Don’t really see a point now. Besides, it feels kind of weird, in a way.”

“Like a rift? Like a moving staircase, where before there was a solid bridge?” Malfoy hums in contemplation. 

“Exactly,” Ron grins. A peculiar warmth courses through him. He knew people understood, he knew he wasn’t truly all alone; still, it feels good to hear it affirmed out loud. He hasn’t actually  _ talked  _ to anyone about it. It’s good to have the existence of the messy swirl of feelings inside him acknowledged. Maybe the fact that it’s Malfoy he’s talking to about this should make him feel weird, but Ron thinks it’s actually easier with Malfoy than it will ever be with Harry or Hermione or Mum.

“Yeah,” Malfoy agrees. 

“See, we’re not so bad at this cordiality thing.”

“I’ll have you know I’m trying  _ very hard,  _ Weasley—why you want to have a heart-to-heart is beyond me, but that’s to be expected with your lot,” Malfoy says, waving his hand around. “But if you believe that I’ll go out of my way to  _ befriend  _ you, that is where you are mistaken.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never  _ had  _ to befriend anyone.”

“What do you mean you never had to  _ befriend  _ anyone? What about Parkinson and, uh, the others?”

“The others,” Malfoy scoffs, “above knowing their names, are you?”

Ron has to stop himself from enacting a very dramatic eye roll—he doesn’t know how to talk to Malfoy without saying one wrong thing or the other, because it seems as if the boy can find offense in anything. Despite that, Ron pushes on. 

“Don’t change the topic, Malfoy. We are officially having a heart-to-heart now.” 

“Because you’re lonely, is it?”

“Because I want to  _ get to know you— _ because I really hope you’ve changed at least a little after this forsaken war. I don’t want to think you’re a horrible person. We’re rooming together now, Malfoy, like it or not, and I’ve always been friends with my roommates. Don’t plan on changing that now.” Ron pauses.  _ “And  _ because I’m lonely, yes.”

“I appreciate the honesty, Weasley. If you really must know, all of my friends… I've known them since I was but a babe. That is to say, my mother…"

"That is to say, your mother befriended them for you?" 

Malfoy hums. "My mother befriended their parents, who in turn were her childhood friends or potentially useful allies. You wouldn't understand."

"I do understand, Malfoy," Ron says, "it's just that I haven't experienced it personally."

Malfoy turns to look at Ron. "But you've experienced this quasi-mating ritual you call  _ befriending,  _ yes?" he says, quirking an eyebrow in a rather comic fashion. Ron can't help but chuckle at the sight. 

"That I have."

"And you're so keen on befriending me."

"That is the intent, yes."

"So what's the first step?" 

"The first step?" Ron echoes, thinking about it. "I suppose the first step is to spend time together. Talk, get to know each other. Do various things together, until it's comfortable enough that you don't need to have the excuse of  _ doing things _ in order to see each other."

"Ah, enlightening," Malfoy says, a sardonic smile playing on his features. "Any ideas for this first step, then?" 

"Not really…"

"Weasley, for all your self-proclaimed experience, you're rubbish at this. What  _ aren't  _ you rubbish at?" 

"You've skipped a bunch of steps now; you can't insult me yet," Ron grins. 

"I do what I want," Malfoy says, raising his chin and huffing. “Besides, if I recall correctly, we were enemies before. That ought to give me a free pass on the insults.”

Ron's smile eases into something softer. Malfoy catches Ron's gaze and looks at him oddly. Tentatively, Malfoy's own lips quirk into a smile, that, for the first time ever, seems actually genuine.

"I may have an idea," says Malfoy, surprising Ron. He'd been getting lost in staring at his roommate. 

"Yeah?" Ron prods. 

"You need to go to the Forbidden Forest soon. That's what it says on that list," Malfoy says, pointing at the parchment next to Ron. "Let me come with you."

"Why'd you wanna come? Aren't you terrified of that place?" 

"I want to see something for myself."

"Herbs?" Ron takes a wild guess. 

Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. "Maybe you're not rubbish at  _ observation, _ then."

"And building charms."

"Interesting," Malfoy says, as if it isn't interesting in the slightest. "So, can I come with you?" 

"I thought you did whatever you wanted?" 

"Oh, sod off," Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I'm coming with."

"Alright, just don't cling too hard onto me when you get scared." 

Malfoy chucks a perfectly made pillow at Ron. 

***

After a quick glance at the instructions provided on the list _ —Nettle, Fluxweed, and if available, Valerian sprigs, all growing in the sunlit part of the Forest, to be harvested and dried— _ Ron decides to go at midday. It's because the damp from any occasionally occurring morning frosts should be well gone by then and ensure plants of the driest caliber; decidedly  _ not  _ because the day shines brightest at the sun’s zenith. He’s a bloody Gryffindor, the Forest doesn’t scare him—or so he tells himself. 

“Can’t Sprout grow these in the Greenhouses?” Malfoy asks. It’s more of a squeak than anything, but Ron is apprehensive enough to let it go without comment. 

He shrugs. "She certainly can. Although I reckon she doesn't want to take up much space for herbs that can easily grow in the Forest."

The grass is dry under Ron's feet as they make their way towards their destination. Wiping sweat from his brow, he squints. Ahead lies the Forest in all its dark glory; first green bushes and then thin trees that give way to the oppressive and looming beeches and oaks. Right at the edge, a patch of vibrant green forms a rectangle with sides that are too straight to be anything but man-made, and Ron knows that's the place they're looking for. 

"See?" He turns to Malfoy, who looks blotchy and red in the face, his scowl a permanent fixture on it. Ron grins. "She did plant them."

"Yes, yes. Get them faster, will you? I want to go in the shade."

"That shade there?" Ron points at the trees. "It doesn't seem really inviting." 

"You're not eleven anymore, Weasel. Or did your girlfriend steal your bollocks when she left you?" 

"Do you feel a compulsive urge to throw an insult at me at least once every two hours? Wasn't the one this morning enough, when you called me a slug for taking too long in the shower—which, by the way, is both insensitive and hypocritical, considering our shared history—" Ron rambles, but Malfoy cuts him off with a sharp movement, hand pulling on Ron's shoulder and holding him firmly in place. "Wha…?" 

"Don't move," Malfoy says and releases Ron. He crouches, covering his mouth with a palm and takes out his wand, pointing it at an odd-looking flower growing inches away from Ron's foot. 

"What is it?" Ron barely even breathes. 

Malfoy looks at the plant for a beat longer and then, out of nowhere, mutters an incantation that Ron can't hear. It rips the flower from the ground, and it levitates until Malfoy casts another charm—this time Ron knows it's the incinerating one. After ten seconds of staring at the ashes of what previously was the plant, Malfoy raises himself up and turns to look at Ron. 

"What in Merlin's name is a  _ spider flower _ doing, growing so far out of the Forest?" he asks, as if Ron has any idea what just happened. 

"And what the bloody hell is a spider flower?" 

Malfoy shoots Ron a scathing look. "You should have studied this in your first year's Herbology class. It's a plant of the toxic variety." The tone Malfoy uses conveys exactly how undignified he finds Ron at the moment. "If you inhale so much as a speck of its pollen, your whole body is paralysed until an antidote is administered."

"It's not as if I was about to go sniffing it," Ron grumbles. 

"No, but you could have stepped on it and brought the pollen to our rooms. I am affected by that too."

"As if I could forget, Malfoy." 

"I really don't know how Sprout and McGonagall sent you out here without even checking if you have the basic knowledge needed to navigate the Forest and the things you may find in it. Honestly, if I hadn't come, you might be lying here, paralysed, prey to any and every thing that may stumble upon you, and I’m sure you know what kinds of creatures lurk in this place, from experience if not from any studying you may have done. Anything could have happened, Weasley,  _ anything. _ Incredible!" 

Even though Malfoy has made it perfectly clear what he thinks of Ron's incompetence, Ron can't find it in himself to be in any way insulted—not when he notes the fervor with which Malfoy chastised Ron for neglecting his own safety. He only chuckles, patting Malfoy on the back. “Thanks, mate. For looking out for me.”

“I  _ wasn’t!”  _ Malfoy says, stomping towards the patch of herbs. “And don’t go around calling me mate.”

“No worries, I won’t do it where anyone can hear. Don’t want that Malfoy reputation tainted with a Weasley now, do we.”

Malfoy turns and looks oddly at Ron. “Self-deprecation is not a good look on you.” 

“It’s not self-deprecation. I was making an ironic statement,” Ron says as he takes the dragonhide gloves Hagrid gave him out of his bag and puts them on. “Seeing as right now, your reputation lies in ruins.”

To Ron’s surprise, Malfoy quirks a smile at that. After their little stand-off and discussion about friendships, Malfoy has been warming up to Ron in a distinctly Malfoy fashion. Not that much time has passed—only a week, but the insults, although they come more often now, seem laced with a dose of humor. And those smiles—those haven’t escaped Ron’s notice either.  _ Why have I been spending so much time thinking about that anyway?  _

The patch is full of Nettle and Fluxweed, and Ron bends down to start plucking them out of the ground, one by one, filling the special compartment in his bag. Sprout had given it to him earlier, saying it’s the one she always uses to separate the herbs she harvests. Malfoy is silent as he watches Ron do this, occasionally shifting from one foot to the other and sighing. 

"So what exactly did you want to look for here?" Ron asks while he's stuffing the bag full of nettles. 

Malfoy opens his mouth on a snarl, but then seems to think better of it and clamps it shut. He shuffles closer to Ron and gives a sort of sheepish look that Ron thinks doesn’t suit a Malfoy at all.

“Promise not to laugh,” Malfoy says. Ron looks at him, and then Malfoy huffs. “Promise!”

“Alright,” Ron says, a slow grin spreading on his face, “I promise… to try not to laugh.” 

Malfoy gives Ron’s shoulder an unexpected shove. An uncontrolled bark of laughter escapes Ron. 

“I see why you couldn’t promise. Oh well.” Malfoy looks uncomfortable as he digs through his pockets, and Ron wonders if Malfoy’s put a bloody Extension Charm on them as he tugs gently at the Fluxweed and starts putting it in another compartment in his bag. When he straightens up for the third time, Malfoy’s looking at him expectantly and holding a parchment aloft between them.

“What’s this, then?” Ron asks as he takes one of his gloves off and takes the parchment from Malfoy’s hand. It’s full of intricate drawings of herbs and their uses as well as what conditions they favor, all scrawled in Malfoy’s tiny but looping script. “Why would I laugh, Malfoy? These are  _ good.”  _

“You think? I’ve been going through sixth year Herbology recently. I missed a lot of it.” Malfoy chuckles. “I was busy, I’m sure you know what with. Well, I’ve been going through the material.”

“I don’t think redrawing the herbs is necessary though?” Ron says as he hands back Malfoy’s parchment and resumes picking the Fluxweed. 

“It isn’t, but it’s… very calming. Anyhow, one of the exercises mentioned in  _ Goshawk’s Guide _ is going to a magical forest and taking note of all the herbs one sees there. It’s supposed to help you learn how to identify leaf and growth patterns, as well as differentiate types of fungi. There’s a checklist in the book and a reference in the back. Particular herbs grow in different forests, and if you’re accurate enough, comparing your checklist to the reference, it should correspond to the exact forest you’ve been exploring in…” Malfoy trails off, flushing and looking off into the distance. “I’m rambling.”

“No, no, not at all,” Ron smiles, zipping his bag full of herbs up. “It’s not like I was planning on reading that book, so this is an interesting piece of trivia.” He starts walking towards the darker part of the Forest. “Coming, then? Tell me which herb is which. I want to brag to Hermione that I’ve actually learnt something.”

***

They come out of the Forest two hours later, Ron with twigs in his hair because he tried to climb a tree and Malfoy with a now-fully-developed sunburn. Ron’s stomach has been steadily growling louder and louder, and he’s certain Malfoy can hear it too, although he hasn’t mentioned anything yet. 

"Coming with me to see Sprout?" Ron asks, when it becomes apparent Malfoy isn't going directly to the castle and instead follows Ron on the path that leads straight to the greenhouses ahead. 

"Yes, I must tell her about that spider flower. I would've liked to take a sample of it, but considering neither of us possess enough knowledge of the sort of quarantining charms needed in this case, I was unable to."

"A simple Protego won't suffice then?" 

"Not at all," Malfoy huffs, breath laboured from climbing up the stone path. "You can ask the Professor," he says, gesturing with his head to Sprout who's waving at them enthusiastically. She falters for a second when they get close enough for her to see whom Ron's with, but shakes herself out of it and beckons them closer with as much warmth as ever. 

"Hello, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. Was your trip to the Forest fruitful?" 

Ron holds out the bag by way of an answer, and Sprout peers inside, soon squealing with delight. 

“Ah, they’ve grown so nicely! Big leaves, healthy stalks, just wonderful. I appreciate the help so much, dear.” 

“That’s what I’m here for…” Ron says, abashed. Malfoy clears his throat from where he’s standing next to Ron, right behind Ron’s shoulder, as if shielding himself. 

“Professor Sprout, I accompanied… Ronald… to the forest,” he says, his voice wavering the tiniest bit, “and I need to inform you that we saw a spider flower. It was in the outskirts, before we even got to the plant patch.”

A look of alarm crosses the professor’s features. “Are you absolutely certain it was a spider flower?”

“Absolutely. I brought a book and reference sheets with me. I checked them while Ronald was collecting the herbs.”

“And the flower…? You did not leave it there, by any chance?” Sprout looks at Malfoy without even a blink. 

“No, I incinerated it. I didn’t want to risk anything,” Malfoy says, visibly uncomfortable under the woman’s scrutiny. 

Sprout sighs in relief, and then pats Malfoy’s shoulder. “You did well, boy. Thank you. First the lake, now this—it must be some odd manifestation of the Forest’s magic. I’ll have to tell Minerva about it… I dare not think it may be anything more sinister…” she trails off.

Ron’s stomach grumbles in the ensuing silence. He grins at Malfoy's unimpressed stare. “To the kitchens, then?”

***

September slowly melts by as everyone gets swept up in their own work. Malfoy spends more time in their shared quarters now that classes have begun, and Ron often catches his roommate scribbling away, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Books start piling up in their room, and at first it’s only the desk that gets cluttered and stacked with the numerous tomes and volumes Malfoy constantly references—until suddenly it isn’t. Ron finds himself having to step over piles left near the door, in front of his own bed, and there’s even a book left on the sink in the bathroom. 

Malfoy’s still sleeping when Ron decides he’s had enough of it. 

With the clinical efficiency of someone used to cleaning his room moments before an enraged mother comes to check on it, he alphabetises the books and stacks them neatly on the desk. He quietly exits the room and goes to a part of the school grounds, somewhat secluded from view, where various building materials still lie, well hidden by one of Hermione’s concealing charms. They’d been left there to be cleaned up after the reconstruction job. 

There’s rubble—dark and light stones stacked on top of each other, metal poles, and various scraps of wood. Ron stacks and then levitates any suitable pieces of dark wood he can find, making his way through the corridors and not minding the bemused stares he gets from the early risers among the students. When he returns, Malfoy is still asleep, so Ron casts a silencing charm.

Then he gets to work. 

Constructing the basic framework of the shelf is easy; he charms the wood together so that it's a closed box space divided horizontally in the middle, leaving enough space from top to bottom even for the largest of books—at least, the ones Ron knows of. The embellishment is the hard part. 

He doesn't know what Malfoy would like. Despite the fact that his immediate thought is something kitschy and very flashy, a part of him is aware that Malfoy hasn't been like that at all lately. 

After some contemplation, he settles on a subdued flower pattern on the sides, but makes it so that the flowers and leaves are indented in the wood, rather than protruding out of it. The end result is tasteful but eye-catching. 

Ron can't help the self-satisfied grin that spreads on his face—he's giddy. Giddy because he's finally good at something that produces tangible results, but more importantly, he's giddy due to the fact that he knows his roommate will appreciate the gesture. 

When Ron arranges the books on the shelf he is happy to note that there's ample space left for more. As a final touch, he grabs a piece of paper and a quill, and tries to write with an acceptable handwriting. 

_ I took the liberty to make this… Draco. I hope you don't mind. Have a nice day, mate. _

He leaves the room, then, to do his daily duties with a lot more fervor than usual. If Hagrid notices the silly grin on Ron's face, he doesn't comment on it. 

***

That night, just before Ron slips into peaceful unconsciousness, Draco breaks the silence, clearing his throat. Ron had thought the other was asleep, so he'd gone to bed somewhat disappointed he didn't get to hear any feedback on his impromptu carpentry. Biting his lip, he turns to face his roommate. 

Draco hesitates, but steels himself. "Thank you for the shelf… Ron. It’s beautiful." 

Their faces mirror each other, Draco's wide smile exposing his teeth, pearly white in the moonlit room. 

It feels like the beginning of something new. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any and all quarantine mentions in this chapter were written pre-current major world events. my 3rd eye popped open for a second. also don't be a dumdum ron, malfoy was looking at /you/


End file.
